


Strings That Bind

by energetically



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anxiety, Awkward Mark Lee (NCT), Denial of Feelings, Dream Sex, Dreams, Falling In Love, Feels, Fluff, Happy Ending, Introversion, Love, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mark Lee (NCT) is Whipped, Mild Sexual Content, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Red String of Fate, Song Lyrics, Soulmates, Sweet Mark Lee (NCT), Unrequited Love, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24245161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/energetically/pseuds/energetically
Summary: It takes Mark one month exactly, thirty days to do what both Johnny and the internet says he can’t do: learn to play guitar. The rough calluses bubbling at the pads of his fingers, dry, skin flaking along the nail bed, are all battle scars of his devotion. A testament to his deep found determination.A short price to pay for a pair of warm eyes to notice him.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 30
Kudos: 300





	Strings That Bind

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came to me in the middle of working on my 1000s of other WIPs when I stumbled across a song I used to be in love with when I was in high school. This is my first time writing anything remotely considered fluff and I struggled because I am not a fluff lover at all lol (although now I may have come around to it). I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.
> 
> Song Inspiration: Give Love A Try by the Jonas Brothers
> 
> NOTE: This has not been proofread (except by my assistant Grammarly). Edits will be made at a later time.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> -Energy

It takes Mark one month exactly, thirty days to do what both Johnny and the internet says he can’t do: learn to play guitar. Maybe his perception of his own talent is skewed by the fact that at one point-- ‘see Mark Lee circa age 10’-- his parents enrolled him in a children’s music class, where he held the neck of a heavy ash wood guitar in his hands for the first time, plucked its strings, and at the less than impressive sound that emitted, wholeheartedly decided that the guitar was not for them. Mark, age 10, went on to learn the piano, but the point is, he’s _attempted_ the guitar before. He’s felt the weight of it in his hand and learned the foundational chords on that first day. And maybe, just maybe, that’s why he excels at doing the impossible. But Mark knows. The rough calluses bubbling at the pads of his fingers, dry, skin flaking along the nail bed, are all battle scars of his devotion. A testament to his deep found determination.

A short price to pay for a pair of warm eyes to notice him.

Becoming profound in the art of the strings isn’t anywhere in Mark’s mind that late night in October when he enters _The Bean Box_. The weather is finally permissible to scarves and beanies, random couples strolling down the nightlife strip huddled in parkas, entangled in each other’s arms. Mark’s ignorant to all of it, eyes glued to the trail of dead leaves on the sidewalk crunching beneath his sneakers. Every once and again, he looks up to avoid bumping into another college student, a drunkard, a family of three, and its the only time his eyes focus on the bright neon lights from adjacent businesses, covering him in a chromatic glow of flashing colors. His eyes fall down again and his mind withdraws back internally when he’s sure he’s still a couple of blocks away. He thinks about the paper he has due to his philosophy class. He thinks about the song he has to write for his music composition course. He thinks of all the reasons to have preloaded on his tongue for when he sees Johnny. He doesn’t want to stumble through an excuse as to why he made the fifteen-minute trek down to the coffee shop just to tell his best friend that he really can’t stay. He wants to sound confident and prepared and sure of himself when he looks Johnny in the eyes because Mark is a terrible liar and Johnny is a master at identifying his tells.

The night air is a mixture of malt and heavy tobacco and the thick scent dries Mark’s nostrils with a disgusting burn. The strip is a prime hangout spot for the students at his college, especially on Friday nights so it isn’t surprising that the restaurant and bars nearby are full to the brim with patrons and some loitering outside for a quick smoke or an aesthetically pleasing selfie. Mark snorts to himself and wonders: art majors, photography majors, or self-aggrandizing social media influencer? The burn of the cigarette ash dancing in a surging breeze nearly suffocates him, and he chokes out a cough into the black knitted scarf hanging around his neck, pushing through the irritating burn. But a few steps more and the offensive odor transforms into a different kind of burn, one that’s strong and nutty--a different offense to his nerve receptors, one that registers into desire, a craving.

He smells the coffee shop before he passes in front of it, and _hears_ it before he dares to look inside. The place is packed, every small table is filled, every nook, cranny, and alcove converted into makeshift seating for customers interested in _The Bean Box’s_ latest novelty: Friday Night Open Mic. Mark stands outside the massive storefront and stares in the window, hands tugging at the loose thread in the pocket of his hoodie and runs the excuses through his mind again. _I have a philosophy paper due. I have to write a song for composition. You know I don’t do well with crowds Johnny-hyung. It’s draining. It’s emotionally draining, please don’t make me stay._ For a moment, he freezes so still, watching the uproar of applause as a woman in her late thirties carefully descends the tiny stage in the back corner and more people off the street rush in to see about the commotion or perhaps just to get out of the gritting cold. It doesn’t feel like he’s there--it feels like he’s watching a movie version of himself and he’s paused the video indefinitely. He can’t will himself to do anything--go inside, turn back-- nothing registers for what seems like minutes, and when it does finally register it’s the blatant thought that no one’s _forcing_ Mark to be there. Johnny invited him, and while the friendly thing to do would be to show up, at least to keep Johnny company during the latter end of his eight-hour shift, but Mark is in charge of his own self and he just doesn’t have to be there. He doesn’t need excuses. He doesn’t need justifications. Hell, he doesn’t even need to make it known that he even came within the vicinity of the shop tonight. He can easily turn around and go back to his apartment, send Johnny a polite apology text, and bury himself between the pleasures of scrolling through his phone aimlessly and sleeping for hours.

But then he _sees_ Johnny through the windows, parked behind the black lacquered counters, apron tied around his neck and waist. And Johnny _sees_ him hovering outside like a socially inept weirdo. And Mark thinks _fuck_ because now that Johnny _sees_ him and he _sees_ the flicker of excitement light over the man’s eyes, there’s no way in hell that he could walk away without a guilty conscious plaguing him for weeks.

Johnny’s smiling, perfect teeth aligned and shining beneath the sole caged bulb hanging above the ordering counter and despite the annoying amount of coffee he ingests, his teeth are still white and inviting and friendly. It makes sense that the company’s owner would schedule Johnny on busy evenings and weekends. He’s the face of _The Bean Box_ , a title appropriately deserved. Mark’s teeth are naturally discolored from years of chugging down energy drinks and scarfing down junk food in his dorms before he got his apartment and learned how to properly prepare a meal consisting of all food groups. It doesn’t bother him. One day he’ll be paid for behind the scene work-- writing songs for musicians and artists rarely required him to be seen by the public and he’s okay with that. It’s actually one of the motivating factors behind his career choice and also the reason why he’s dreading the fact that his feet are moving towards the door, hands gripping the iron handle and pulling it open. He really didn’t need to be around a lot of people. 

He’s been to _The Bean Box_ several times before if only to put use to Johnny’s discount. During those times, the shop was near empty and echoing with soft clicking of laptop keyboards, low murmurs of music filtering out of the radio on the back counter, and the airy sounds of steam rising from the espresso machines. Mark wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but he liked their pastries, and Johnny was his friend, so he rarely hesitated to stop by on early mornings when he didn’t have class. He’d occupy the closest table to the counter and work on a couple of assignments because anything was better than attempting to study in the on-campus library.

But tonight, the shop radiates a different energy. Independent of the fixtures and walls painted dark obsidian and the few dim hanging bulbs hovering every so many square feet away, the atmosphere is darker than it usually is, more sultry and intimate. Mark’s unsure if it’s because of the obnoxious amount of people crowded in the place, casting shadows over anything the light touches or if it’s _how_ those same people are crowded inside, lapped up and hanging over each other. Though each at their own table, they all blurred together like a jungle gym of limbs, watching and whooping at the latest performer to ascend the stage, a guy who’s combat boots clunk along each step, earrings jingle softly in the microphone’s feedback and piercings glint in the dim spotlight. His fiery red hair is long, tied up by a thin ribbon in a man bun and Mark is willing to bet Johnny a year’s worth of free coffee vouchers that despite not having opened his mouth yet, the guy probably has a pierced tongue (or at least a second piercing somewhere). He looks about as hardcore as they come, completely clothed in all black-- bomber jacket, ripped jeans and all--, but when he opens his mouth (spoiler alert: no tongue piercing), his voice is soft and angelic, something that Mark doesn’t expect to hear. He hums to himself. You really never know what you’re going to get with college students.

“Mark!” he hears Johnny yell a few feet away and realizes that he’s still blocking the door, and sidesteps as a few more people pile in and out of the cafe.

He cranes his head towards the counter, adjusting the thick beanie over his messy black locks out of habit and stutters through the slightly more dispersed crowd in the front of the shop waiting for their orders. By the time he reaches him, Johnny is a full-on beam, rotating his attention between perfecting a customer’s frappuccino and watching Mark lean against the adjacent counter.

“You made it,” Johnny hums, wiping the rim of the cup with a napkin. “I was sure you wouldn’t show up. Might’ve even called in sick like it was your job.”

Mark would have. He totally would have. “I’m here,” he settles on saying and it’s more for mindfulness, speaking the idea of here-and-now into existence. Johnny’s happy to see him and he should focus on that. Nothing else.

“Jaehyun said you’d be a no show,” Johnny smirks now, topping the icy drink with a dollop of whipped topping. “And now, he owes me $20.”

Mark leans up from the counter with a short frown. So maybe there was a different reason why Johnny was so happy to see him. “You guys were betting on whether I’d show up?” he mulled.

Johnny hands off the drink to its owner, directs them to the area for straws and napkins, and then turns to Mark, hands folded across his chest. “We weren’t betting on you, more so your sudden bouts of flakiness. It’s been so unpredictable that well, we might as well make money off of you if we don’t get to see you.”

Mark’s standing up right now, only his hands touching the countertop and his brows pinch together until the skin between them accordions into defined wrinkles. “You don’t know how out of context and fucked up that sounds.” In the background, the guy, the red-head, is still singing his song, but Mark tunes it and the sound of everyone else around him out.

“How does that sound bad?”

“ ‘We might as well make money off of you.’ You sound like you’re my pimp or something,” Mark says with a grunt. His eyes instinctively trail along the immediate vicinity of the ordering counter before continuing. “And where even is Jaehyun anyway?”

“He’s not coming,” Johnny states, running his fingers through his hair and pushing the strands off of his forehead.

“And yet the both of you are betting against me.”

“Actually,” Johnny points out. “Jaehyun betted against you. I was on your side, like always, and you pulled through. Everybody loves a good underdog.”

Mark looks away from Johnny to the stage and shakes his head. If he hadn’t known the two since his freshman year of university (Johnny and Jaehyun’s senior and junior year respectively) he wouldn’t have taken the joke so lightly. He was used to their special brand of reindeer games at Mark’s expense, some funny, some less than amusing, but he knew the teasing and torment came from a good place. Being a good sport about it is the least Mark can do--Johnny and Jaehyun were right, he hasn’t been the most consistent friend lately.

“School’s been picking up a bit,” Mark says finally when he sees Johnny move to wash his hands out the corner of his eyes and starts preparing a new order. “My advisors and professors keep breathing down my back saying my work isn’t enough to get my foot in the door. They want me to be this songwriting prodigy, a genius that writes hit like that,” Mark snaps for emphasis. He doesn’t even know if Johnny hears him over the next performer reciting slam poetry and the humming of the coffee machines, but surprisingly Johnny hums too and offers a sympathetic expression.

“That’s unrealistic,” he states rather bluntly. “But I wouldn’t stress over it. Cs get degrees and most of these companies aren’t gonna give a damn about what you made on your Music Composition assignment. It’s about who you know not what you know that gets you places.” The steam from the freshly made cappuccino creates a thin layer of sheen on Johnny’s face as he starts the milk design. “I put in the minimal amount of effort in all my classes. I sacrificed grades for actual learning and meeting people. And look at me now.”

“25 and working as a barista at a coffee shop,” Mark quips, barely containing his smirk.

“It’s _lead_ barista to you,” Johnny says with an amused lilt of his own. “And this is only a foot-in-the-door position. With my business degree, I could be owning this place within a few years. Maybe even open up a couple of chains.” He hands the hot drink over to the customer and moves to the pastry display, bringing out the last fruit tart and placing it on a saucer within Mark’s reach.

After a couple of bites, Mark replays Johnny’s words in his mind as the older attends to more customers at tables scattered about. He has a point and Mark is probably catastrophizing. He will graduate next year, he will get a degree, and he will eventually find work. He knows it. He’s talented--so many of his classmates and professors have told him so, to the point that his humility and modesty have transformed to moderate acceptance. But this is the longest he’s gone without the spark of inspiration. 

Usually, at any given time, Mark could pull out a notebook, a sheet of paper, or even the back of a used napkin and jot down lyrics in the form of a hook or a chorus. He’s written verses in his mind while brushing his teeth and created bridges while daydreaming in class. This was Mark’s calling, undoubtedly, and lately, he hasn’t been able to answer to it.

Johnny’s attempt at helpful advise included dragging Mark to the Open Mic Night for inspiration, a weekly event that Mark usually avoided for every aforementioned reason but Johnny filled his head with ideas of stumbling across a hidden gem through all of the caffeinated, drunk, or high college students frequenting the place. _You might find your muse_ , Johnny had said to him with a slow and teasing grin. Mark’s reply was a less than amused snort.

The seats at his favorite table were unavailable as every other seat in the place, so Mark pushes himself behind the ordering counter and settles on the stool pushed against the wall. Whenever Johnny ran the place himself, he never hesitated to allow Mark behind the counter, with the condition that he didn’t “touch shit”, “mess with shit”, or “break shit.” Mark always found the conditions to be amusing, never shying away from throwing Johnny a smirk because, between the two of them, Johnny is the clumsiest. Mark has watched Johnny accidentally flip over trays of sprinkles and sugar packets with the flick of his hand and spill recently opened cartons of milk on the floor. And yet, Mark was the liability. He snorts as he takes another bite of his tart, saucer in hand.

Mark is a music student, trained in writing, trained, and proficient at playing the piano. He can play songs on the keys by sheer memory and can detect the subtle fluctuations of tone and breath in a songstress’ voice. He can build bridges around a soprano and hooks for tenors. He is a master of his trade, and his trade only, rarely dabbling in anything outside what he already knows and that’s what makes him stagnant. He knows this. He knows this even in his junior year of university, but never made any plans to branch his talents to other devices.

He only considers learning another instrument, specifically the guitar, when _he_ takes the stage.

The single bulb above the microphone has a way of making the man’s bronze skin warmer, stripes of amber eyeshadow swiped across his lids. Wavy brown locks fall over his forehead and angle over his eyes as his head bows, supple lips pursing together as he draws the microphone close enough for all to hear a sharp inhale of breath through the feedback.

Mark doesn’t know if everyone else feels it, but he feels _something_. Everything is swirling in concentric circles, the focal point being the man on stage caressing the microphone in his hand and belting out a note in a high register. It’s angelic and enchanting. The notes linger in the air, entrancing like the call of a siren, luring Mark out of his seat and directly to the counter for a better view, mouth agape, and soul ablaze. His eyes are out of focus to everything around him and he wasn’t so afraid of missing something, he’d contemplate how ridiculous he must look right now. His pupils are probably blown looking at the singer on stage and there’s no way his stupefied expression can look remotely attractive or welcoming to the group of customers hesitating around the counter, prepared to give their order. He’s sure he looks like a caricature of old cartoons with hearts for eyes and tongue hanging out of his mouth. At least, that’s what he feels like. But real or not, Mark is willing to push aside the shame he should currently feel if it means he could engrain the memory of the man’s voice in his mind forever.

It’s warm, like liquid honey trickling down and soothing an aching throat. After a while, Mark doesn’t even hear the music anymore, just the small breaths in between verses and each enunciation of each word. He can’t pull himself away from the stage, even seconds after the song has ended and the voice helps himself back down to his group of friends.

“You should really see your face right now.”

And then Mark’s back. To reality. To the real world.

It reminds him that he isn’t in a dream or heaven or anything like it, but propped against the sticky counter near the register, and Johnny is back standing a few inches away, arms crossed and eyes amused.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you stare so hard at someone,” Johnny continues, tilting his head to the side. “I think you might have actually creamed your pants.”

Mark pushes off the counter and guides himself back towards the stool. “I did not,” he starts, pulling the beanie on his head further down to cover his reddening ears. “I wasn’t looking at _him_. I was listening to the song.”

“Bullshit,” Johnny says, bringing his thumb to wipe at his own lip as a gesture. “You’re drooling.”

Mark instinctively swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, groaning at his own inability to control himself, but quickly darts his eyes back towards Johnny when he realizes he’s been caught in an even more incriminating tell. He brings his dry hand down to his side and tries his best to ignore Johnny’s guffaws. He wants to regret stepping foot in the coffee shop--why did he even bother leaving his apartment? But, never showing up meant never being able to witness the man with the sun-kissed skin’s performance, and Mark decides that a bit of torment is a small price to pay.

He doesn’t even realize that he’s staring in the guy’s direction again until Johnny comes by his side to lean against the adjacent wall. “His name is Donghyuck,” he says, rolling the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows and shoving his hands in the apron pockets.

_Donghyuck_. Mark wouldn’t forget it.

“You know him?” Mark tries to ask with indifference but cringes as his voice cracks almost instantly. If Johnny notices, (and Mark is sure he does), he doesn’t make a point to tease him about it. Instead, he follows Mark’s line of vision to the Donghyuck and his friends laughing and talking at their table, before giving a noncommittal noise.

“Not really,” Johnny offers. “We’re not close or anything, but he comes here every morning when we always have low traffic. He orders the same thing and sits at the same table and types on his laptop.” Johnny hums to himself with a nod to confirm the thought. “He’s pretty nice though, but he’s got a mouth on him.”

“Is he a student?” Mark blurts out all too eagerly. He swears to himself and tugs at the loose thread from the rips in his jeans. _Easy Mark._

“Mmm, I don’t think so,” Johnny shakes his head, turning to look at Mark finally. “You sure are asking a lot of questions. I’m not here to encourage your stalker-like behavior Mark.”

The flush travels to Mark’s neck now, creeping slowly towards his cheeks. He’s thankful for the dim lighting and the start of the next performance so no one really has the chance to notice, but Johnny is right in front of him analyzing his every movement and for once Mark prays for an influx of customers to distract the barista.

“It’s not like-” Mark hesitates for a moment, taking a steady breath. “It’s not like that. I just, I really like his voice. That’s all. I figured maybe he could be some help with my assignment if he was a student.” The words leave Mark’s lips before he really has time to process them and he nods for affirmation--a nonverbal period to what seems final. It makes sense to him. The feeling in his gut, the dryness of his throat when Donghyuck sang was the side effects of an artist inspired by another artist. It was an appreciation. He repeats it over and over in his head until it feels as natural as it sounds because this explanation is way less farfetched than admitting he’s infatuated with someone he hasn’t even had a conversation with.

Johnny’s eyes are intense, scanning every inch of Mark’s person for another tell and obviously he sees something Mark doesn’t--discovers a fault in Mark’s logic somewhere because suddenly he’s smirking wider than before. His grin dissolves into hearty laughter seconds later and Mark really wants to die.

“Oh,” Johnny says pointedly. “I get it. You have a crush on him. That’s so cute!”

“I don’t know him to have a crush on him.”

“That’s the literal definition of a crush,” Johnny counters. “Your mind conjures up this perception of what you think a person is until you truly get to know them for what they are.”

Mark’s mouth twists, the corners pulling upward. “You mean how I used to think you were charming and debonair from afar? Man was I disappointed when I got to know the _real_ you.”

Johnny lets out a mocking laugh, moving towards the register as another customer approaches. “If you’re gonna be snarky _and_ lovesick at the same time I would’ve never invited you,” he cranes his neck around to say.

“Is that an opening for me to go home?”

“It’s a _prayer_ ,” Johnny retorts, gesturing towards the door. “Please, be my guest.”

At first, Mark stands from the stool, so fast that the metal legs clangs obnoxiously against the tile floor, attracting the attention of everyone within two feet of the counter. Mark hardly notices though, because he sees Donghyuck again, smiling, clapping in earnest and showering the latest performer with cheered praises amongst the crowds’ applause. Mark watches with the knowledge that he can’t bring himself to leave the cafe anymore.

So he sits back down and enjoys the rest of the show.

And when Mark goes home, at almost a quarter to 3 AM, he ends up falling asleep with his phone in his hand, Googling tutorials for guitar.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s three days later when Mark finally sees Donghyuck again.

He’s three days into his guitar lessons--even picked up a used guitar in fairly good condition at a local pawn shop-- and unlike his days of pre-teendom, Mark is determined and progressing just fine, perhaps even at an advanced pace. There’s a tune in his head, one that popped up as Donghyuck descended the stage that night, lingered when Johnny walked him home and hadn’t resolved since. It’s acoustic and soothing like a lullaby, lulling Mark to sleep every night and calming the raging thoughts of his mind during the day. It’s the perfect foundation without any lyrics and Mark is determined to figure out the algorithm like a missing puzzle piece to a grand picture.

Mark likes to think that his attraction to Donghyuck is one of an artist to a muse. Without sharing words, Donghyuck managed to arouse a newfound inspiration in Mark’s soul, one that burns more intensely than any passion he’s ever felt, and he appreciates that. It’s the _only_ reason he’s so set on seeing Donghyuck again.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

He doesn’t exactly plan it. It just so happens that his schedule works out in a way that conveniently frees him up around 10 AM, right around the time _The Bean Box_ has finished its morning rush. He vaguely remembers Johnny mentioning it being a key factor in Donghyuck’s schedule but immediately rids his mind of the thought. 

It’s pure coincidence.

Jaehyun is working the morning shift and does a double-take as Mark casually walks inside, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck and binding it around his hand once at the counter.

“Isn’t it a little late for you to be here?” Jaehyun asks, raising a brow and moving to clean the empty tables with a damp towel.

“It’s 10 AM,” Mark deadpans.

“Which might as well be 10 PM according to your rationale,” Jaehyun smiles to himself, dimples pitting his cheeks. “You’re usually here at the break of dawn. I’m just surprised to see you now, is all.”

Mark flusters a bit, sheepishly scratching at the nape of his neck and lets out a small breathless laugh,”I guess I just needed a change.”

The excuse satisfies Jaehyun, and Mark breathes out in relief that he doesn’t have to endure the dance of fabricated excuses. It’s really no one’s business why he’s there so early (or late). He shouldn’t have to hide his intentions or cover his tracks. And yet, he feels guilty, like what he’s doing is wrong.

Even as he sits at his favorite table, notebook open, pen tapping the page incessantly, the guilt travels down his spine with a resounding shiver. He’s not even trying to come up with lyrics, not even bothering to remove the teabag from the cup Jaehyun set in front of him minutes ago. Instead, his eyes are darting towards the door every time the bell chimes, introducing a new customer, hoping to catch a sliver of a glance at tan skin, a warm smile, and honey eyes. It’s a bit pitiful, definitely pathetic--he ruminates over the ridiculousness of it all over and over in his head, but it doesn’t stop him from flinching when the bell chimes again an hour later and his eyes lay upon the one thing he’s been hoping for all morning.

Donghyuck under the morning sun is different from Donghyuck covered in the sin of night. He’s sans heavy eye makeup, no gloss or shimmery shadow decorating his lids and browbones and Mark is thankful because he would’ve never known a more ethereal version of the man could exist. His hair is less wavy and perfected, more crinkled and twisted, disheveled in a way that suggests that he quite literally just rolled out of bed and headed straight to the cafe for his morning brew. His clothes aren’t clingy and tight but rather oversized and baggy and for a moment, Mark wonders if he’s barking up the wrong tree. What if the sweatshirt large enough to expose Donghyuck’s clavicle and long enough to cover his hands belongs to a lover? For all he knew, Donghyuck could have rolled out of bed from the throes of passion, too exhausted to dress up and opting to borrow his lover's clothes instead.

Mark swallows and averts his gaze as Donghyuck orders his drink and sits at his table, dragging his laptop open and wasting little time before he’s typing with his tongue darting out in occasional flicks of the lips. There’s no way anyone that looks like _that_ is single, Mark reasons. But no matter how devastating of a realization it is, Mark doesn’t stop himself from sneaking glances and watching the man engrossed in his own personal affairs. Even if Donghyuck was a taken man, there wasn’t anything wrong with having friends.

He pulls the steeping teabag out of the mug, the liquid too dark and over-steeped for proper consumption, but it’s not enough to stop him from chugging the tea down anyway, wincing at the burn shooting across his tongue. Not even the honey and spoonfuls of sugar Jaehyun adds is enough to override the bitterness from a tea bag that’s immersed a minute too long. He winces. It’s earthy and potent, the complete opposite of how he likes it, but it’s his own fault. His own wandering mind couldn’t stop him from doing the simplest of things, including watching his own drink. The liquid is astringent on his numb tongue, leaving his mouth dry and clean of saliva. It’s not the taste he needs now or any other properties of its flavor profile, but the caffeine, because his own anxiety is sure to stand in the way of what he knows he’s about to do and caffeine is a stimulant. It gives him motivation and focus before it peaks taking his anxiety on a turn for the worse. He just needs the buzz for jumping the first few hurdles. He can handle the crash of jitters and uneasiness later.

The sound of the chair screeching across the floor sounds louder in his ears and it makes him recoil just slightly out of fear that everyone’s eyes in the room are on him. They’re not. He doesn’t have to look to know. He knows how irrational it is, but he looks anyway to give himself comfort and to his relief, everyone is still chatting in their own side conversations, typing up reports, or scrolling through their phones. Only Jaehyun is looking at him, and it’s because Mark is randomly standing at his table, frozen in his spot like his mind is in the middle of a complete system reboot. Jaehyun raises his brow and Mark waves the concern off with a flick of his hand, pushing away from the table at last and setting his eyes on his destination.

Donghyuck is objectively prettier the closer Mark advances, a whole lot more celestial than he originally pegged. The closer he advances, Donghyuck looks intangible, like artwork behind a velvet rope. Mark wants to touch him. He wants to view him without restraint. But he can’t do either. Not if he can’t gather up the courage to introduce himself to the boy. Not if he can’t use the same brain that he uses to profess lyrics of profound emotions to offer his name to the pretty boy from open mic night. He passes a bunch of empty tables before he’s close enough to smell the sweetness of Donghyuck’s drink. He hasn’t worked out what exactly he intends on saying and that’s a completely horrifying thought all on its own, but Donghyuck beats him to the point. He utters one simple word that has Mark’s mind reeling, mouth-drying, and eyes widening.

"No."

Mark's steps falter at the abruptness of Donghyuck's voice. He doesn't expect to hear anything before the man rests his eyes on him, hell, he doesn't expect Donghyuck to even notice that he's approaching his table. Donghyuck is perceptive though, that much is obvious. His fringe hangs in front of his face as his head still lends shade to the notebook planted beneath the palms of his hands. He doesn't look at Mark, pen still scribbling and doodling across the fine lines of college rule, but he knows Mark is there-- there isn't anyone else close enough that the words could be directed towards. Unless Donghyuck is the type to vocalize his thoughts. Mark doesn't think that's the case.

"Wh-what?" He stammers and immediately the flush of embarrassment is at his neck and a relief of gratefulness in the pit of his stomach that Donghyuck still isn't looking up at him to see the human personification of a nervous wreck. He clears his throat, swallowing dryly, and rests his hand on the empty chair across from Donghyuck for balance. "How did you even know I was here?"

Donghyuck snorts derisively, shoulders moving with the amused gesture. "Please. You mean aside from feeling your eyes burning a hole into my skin ever give minutes?" He asks. Mark really really doesn't know what's worse: feeling those warm honey eyes on him, hard and intense, or realizing that anything, including a scattered pile of ripped sugar packets, was probably more important to look at, in Donghyuck's eyes. He sucks in a sharp breath that he hopes isn't noticeable when Donghyuck finally looks up and notes that his expression is less humored than his words let on. "Your cologne is strong enough to overpower the coffee here."

Mark tugs at his shirt, hauling the collar towards his nose with a small sniff. "I'm not wearing cologne. Just deodorant,"

Donghyuck hums, returning his gaze back to his paper and Mark fights the whine at the back of his throat from embarrassing him. "The answer is still no," Donghyuck says after a moment, switching his scribbled handwriting to slow strokes of refined cursive.

"No to what?" Mark asks. The longer he stands in Donghyuck's presence the more ridiculous he feels, especially with Jaehyun casually eying him every few seconds and more people filtering in and out. He isn't too sure how he looks, but his mind associates it to the likes of a dog begging for attention or scraps at a table. Donghyuck controls the figurative leash around him and doesn't care if he's panting and whining for a moment's attention. He's willing to ignore Mark and his devices without any guilt and that makes Mark uncomfortable. He doesn't like to beg.

When a longer pause than usual passes between them, Mark drags his hand off of the chair down to his side and resolves to head back to his table and erasing the encounter from his mind with any alcohol Johnny and Jaehyun kept in their apartment. But Donghyuck is clearing his throat as he moves to turn around, bringing his attention back to Donghyuck's features that are unreadable.

"You're about to unleash some type of pick-up line on me or force some type of small talk for the sake of getting in my pants. Normally I'd humor it but today I'm not really in the mood."

Guilt doesn't describe what Mark feels. That would imply that there's truth to Donghyuck's words and that just isn't true. In the sin of the night, during demon time, maybe Mark's hormones would rage from days without being touched and egg him on to charm Donghyuck into his bed (in his own awkward but endearing way of course). But physical attraction isn't what drives him to make the first move. He can't name the emotion. It's heavy with obligation, almost like guilt, but he knows it's not that. He wants to say the word but he can't. It's like it's lodged in his throat, or on the tip of his tongue but his mind can't formulate the sentence. He feels it in his heart, in his constricting lungs, and pressing against every nerve in his body. He just wants Donghyuck because he knows Donghyuck can help him come up with the words. Donghyuck could put into words what Mark couldn't and Mark could show Donghyuck that he's interested in more than a good fuck. He wants an experience --having Donghyuck, for him, would mean having all of him. He wants that synergy, the type of harmony that’s kismet.

He doesn't say all of these things as Donghyuck is staring hardened holes into his person. Instead, pointing to the holder on the table and uttering weakly, "I just wanted to borrow some sugar."

Donghyuck follows his outstretched finger towards the tray as if he doesn't believe that sugar exists, let alone that it's the only thing on Mark's mind. He picks up a pink packet of sugar substitute, cradles it between his index and middle finger before narrowing his eyes at Mark.

"Don't you have sugar at your own table?" He asks, craning his eyes around to catch a glance of where Mark's things are setup.

Mark slides in front of his line of vision and offers a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his head. "Not this kind," he says, pointing at the packets.

"Then why didn't you ask the barista or take some packets from one of the empty tables?"

Fuck. Mark hadn't thought that far.

He blows out a breath, shoulders slumping. "Are you really this difficult?"

And to his surprise, Donghyuck smiles. And it's genuine-- at least it looks genuine through Mark's eyes.

"Only when I want to be," he remarks, flicking the packet across the table to Mark. "But if sugar's what you really wanted, be my guest." He knows Donghyuck feels the linger of another question in the air because he watches Mark hesitate to pick up the line packet, toying with it in his hands. "Something else I can help you with?" He asks, lip curling upwards.

Mark averts his gaze to the notebook, eyes falling on stanzas of words and phrases, some crossed out and some underlined. "Are you writing lyrics?" He asks.

Donghyuck closes the notebook suddenly, resting his palms on the cover, and Mark breaks into a cold sweat thinking that he may have offended the boy. But Donghyuck doesn't look so much offended as he is unconfident, flipping the book over as if it'll erase its contents.

"Is this your segue into the small talk?" He asks looking away.

"No, I just...I noticed the format," Mark admits genuinely. "I'm a music student...music composition is kind of my thing so I just-" he doesn't finish the sentence, just gestures toward the book again not wanting to make Donghyuck any more uncomfortable than he already has. But his mouth is faster than his mind and before he knows it, he's saying, "I could help you out with them if you're struggling?"

Donghyuck whips his head back towards Mark, eyes ablaze. “What makes you think I’m struggling?” he asks defensively.

Mark throws up his hands, surrendering his white flag. “ No, no, it’s just,” he swallows back his words hesitantly before sighing. “I’m struggling with a project too. Writing lyrics,”

“I’m not a student,” Donghyuck adds. Mark tries not to admit that he already knows that piece of information, especially when Donghyuck seems so willing to offer it.

“Oh,” Mark says casually, slowly pulling out the unused chair and watching Donghyuck’s face for any sign of unrest, before plopping down and resting his arms on the table. “I would’ve thought by how well you sing that you were the music department’s prodigy at my university.”

He watches as Donghyuck dips his straw in and out of his frozen drink, ultimately pulling it out to lap at the cream lining the bottom half. “When have you heard me sing?” Donghyuck asks almost accusingly but the lift of his brows is more curious than blaming.

“A couple of days ago, here,” Mark replies with feigned indifference. “You were good. You _are_ good.” he corrects. “Do you, like, write for work or something?”

“Or something,” is Donghyuck’s vague reply.

Donghyuck doesn’t press the subject and neither does Mark.

Instead, Donghyuck flips the worn notebook back over and flips through it, fingers pressing down on the page he was previously working on. He spread his hands across the book, flattening the pages down. He looks up towards Mark again cautiously.

“You’re really a music major?”

Mark nods. “Completely qualified and unbiased.” He graciously and gingerly takes the book after Donghyuck slides it across the table to him as he continues. “I figured we can help each other out. You know, quid pro quo?”

The first thing Mark notices aside from the distress in Donghyuck’s printed handwriting is how cynical the lyrics are. There are dozens of words crossed out but the ones that remain are painfully blunt. Mark doesn’t necessarily consider himself a romantic. He enjoys ‘love’ a regular amount and suspects he’d put in the regular amount of effort when pursuing someone. But Donghyuck’s outlook on love as noted by his heavy lyrics are harsh and unyielding, a tad bit bitter and cold. From what Mark can gather from the lyrics, Donghyuck doesn’t like restraints. He likes freedom, something he feels he can’t get with love. It’s not Mark’s place to judge since lyrics are supposed to be forms of expression and completely subjective, but reading it feels so _wrong_. Objectively.

It’s then that he realized that maybe his own efforts aren’t really a _normal_ amount. He’s learning the guitar because of Donghyuck, and though he still isn’t quite sure if it’s out of creative necessity or romantic interest, it’s still enough of a grand gesture to classify Mark as a hopeless romantic. His own heart beats in agony at Donghyuck’s jadedness, but he can’t muster up an opinion because as soon as the book reaches his hands, it’s snatched back resting in the safety of Donghyuck’s palms.

“Quid pro quo?” Donghyuck repeats, squinting his eyes and letting out a bitter laugh. “What? Like you help me with lyrics and I blow you? That type of exchange?”

Mark’s eyes widen. “No, no! Of course not!” he stumbles out. “I didn’t mean it like that-”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” the book snaps shut and Donghyuck’s chair is pushing back, giving way for him to stand. “I’m not interested in anything you have to offer. I don’t need your help.”

Mark witnesses it all in slow-motion. Donghyuck leaves the table with his drink in one hand and his notebook in the other, and he doesn’t look back. Mark isn’t sure exactly how he’s managed to tick the man off but it’s devastating, sending him slumping back against his own chair and staring at the empty space in front of him.

“Seriously Mark?” he hears Jaehyun say from behind the counter. “You can’t stay here if you’re going to run our customers away.”

He can’t focus on Jaheyun’s admonishing. He’s too confused and desolate, overridden by the fact that he never even offered Donghyuck his name.

* * *

  
  


A week later, Mark dreams of Donghyuck.

No, he doesn’t dream of Donghyuck, but of the sun rising painstakingly slow over the horizon at dawn. Its rays slice through the canopy of trees in sharp blades, cutting through the remaining darkness of shadows. The light radiates through so vividly that Mark squints as he comes towards a curve in the winding road. His eyes are watering and stinging at the onslaught of daylight but he grips the steering wheel tighter, blinking through the biting pain and curving the steering wheel.

When did he get a car?

The convertible is a classic model, one that he remembers Johnny having a model of on the bookcase in his bedroom. It’s vintage, probably the last of its kind, and Mark isn’t sure how he manages to get a hold of it, but the vehicle is responding to his touch like it’s accustomed to Mark’s weight and touch. It eases his nerves that he’s the only person on the road. He’s too easily distracted.

And who wouldn’t be, when next to him, the click of a camera whirs and a freshly printed polaroid is placed in his lap. He’s too focused on the road to look down at the picture, even after it’s finished developing, but he’s more enthralled by the being sitting in the passenger seat next to him.

Donghyuck seems more relaxed and aware of their surroundings than Mark. He’s barefoot, tan legs tucked beneath him along the leather seats and his hair is wild and untamed in the light morning breeze. His laugh is soft, almost muffled beneath the sounds of his open button-down rippling as the wind picks up as Mark accelerates. Before Mark knows it, he isn’t staring at the road anymore, but at the boy next to him, wondering if Donghyuck knows who he’s with. Wondering if Donghyuck knows who he is or where they’re going. He wonders how he even convinced Donghyuck to get in the car in the first place--how much he means to Donghyuck now for him to trust him enough with his life. Mark isn’t the most qualified driver after all.

Mark’s foot is heavy on the gas pedal when he feels the ball in his throat bob up and down and he remembers to look back at the road. The scenery gives itself away to be somewhere distant--somewhere that Mark’s probably never heard of. There aren’t any other cars or businesses or buses like there are near the university and his apartment. This place, wherever they were, didn’t smell of sulfur, cigarettes, and pollution. He breathes in easily and exhales the essence of fresh trees and dew-covered grass. It’s clean and refreshing the further they go down the dirt country road. Mountains spring from the ground like stalagmites, covered in acres and acres of green, spanning into valleys and fields that seem never-ending. The road doesn’t curve again after they pass the trees--just straight towards the horizon that never seems to grow closer.

He hears a shift against the leather to his side and when he dares to look away from the road again, Donghyuck’s facing him with a wistful smile, leaning his back and forearms against the convertible’s door, the camera still in hand.

“You’re in your head too much,” the honeyed voice says. Mark thinks looking at him is almost as blinding as looking at the sun.

He intends to say something but his words die in his throat. He can’t figure out what to say. He has so many questions that die on his tongue, along with an apology for somehow offending him in a world that seems distant from where they are now. But none of those things come into fruition. Instead, he listens helplessly, eyes roaming back to the road, palms sweating around the leather of the steering wheel.

“This really is one of my favorite things,” Donghyuck’s saying after a moment, casting a glance to the rolling hills. “Morning drives. No direction. No plan. Just pure spontaneity.”

Mark lets out a noise of agreeance but it dies in his throat as Donghyuck continues.

“I’m going to miss this.”

“Why?” Mark panics, almost lets go of the steering wheel but regains control when he feels the car swerve towards the opposite lane. “Where are you going?”

“You mean where are _we_ going,” Donghyuck corrects. “We’re going nowhere.”

Mark’s brows knit together, lips pursing in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

He wants to pull over and face Donghyuck properly. It’s hard to listen and concentrate with Donghyuck inches away from him. He’s not allowed to look at him or touch him and it's disorienting to hear something that he wants so much--something that he can almost touch-- say that it's leaving.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Donghyuck angle his body towards the door, leaning over the side with the camera to his eyes and snapping another picture. He grabs the polaroid as it prints out the bottom and fans it in the breeze, allowing it to develop. The smile that grows on his face as he stares at the picture is nostalgic. His fingers dance along the edges of the photo, thumb tracing some outline hidden from Mark’s view, and then he releases it, the pictures fluttering off in the breeze and soaring behind the car’s exhaust.

“Why’d you do that?” Mark asks exasperated, quickly glancing at the fading photo in his side mirror, and then back to the road ahead.

“I didn’t do it,” Donghyuck says. “You did.”

Another flash of the camera. Another wave of a photo. Another discarded polaroid.

Mark frowns in frustration and runs his fingers through his hair with one hand. Donghyuck is a code that he can’t quite decipher and it’s worse than any hurdle of writer’s block he’s ever faced, tougher than any math problem he’s encountered, and more agonizing than any physical pain he’s endured. He’s unsure if Donghyuck directly reads his mind, or if he’s just that predictable, but Donghyuck sighs, holding up another polaroid, this time centimeters from Mark’s profile.

“Do you remember this?” he asks.

Mark looks at the photo briefly. It’s unfamiliar yet something about it makes his heart pang in his chest with a dull ache. The background shows a beach with white sand and crystal clear water, the film not quite able to capture the rippling waves. Mark sees a version of himself that he doesn’t recognize. It looks older, maybe taller, and his hair is several tones lighter--lighter than he’d ever consider going. His t-shirt and trunks are soaked, dripping over his frame but clinging to every expanse of skin it could find purchase in, but from the neck up he doesn’t seem bothered judging by the wide grin on his face. And wrapped around him, arms encircled around his waist, head angle up towards him with affectionate eyes is Donghyuck. He’s just as soaked as Mark is, maybe even wetter considering his dark locks are stuck to his forehead. It seems so familiar but, Mark can’t retrieve the memory in his head.

“This was our first vacation together,” Donghyuck says somewhat fondly, turning the picture back to face himself, lips pulled in a tight line.

“I- I don’t remember that,” Mark admits shamefully.

Donghyuck’s warm eyes dull when they zero in on Mark’s face. “Of course you don’t,” he says letting the picture float off in the breeze. “There it goes.”

Mark watches the picture go similar to the last and when it’s completely out of view, all traces of the memory fade along with it. Though he’s just seen it with his own eyes, he can’t remember the color of his hair, or the blueness of the ocean, or the warmth in Donghyuck’s affectionate gaze. He scrunches his eyes in concentration but try as he may, it’s gone. All of it.

“Do you really plan on giving up that easily,” Donghyuck asks, already focused on the next photo. “A couple of harsh words isn’t gonna stop you is it?”

Mark wants to say yes--or maybe no. He doesn’t know. He just knows that Donghyuck’s facade grows darker and more distant with each release of a photo until there’s more than several inches between them. Suddenly, Donghyuck feels like a stranger, not like someone’s he’s ridden along this road with before. He feels uncomfortable and full of unfamiliarity watching Donghyuck continue with his ministrations, dumping an armful of photos over the side of the car and watching them scatter across the land, wedging in bushes, blowing in ditches, and carrying off towards the sun.

“Donghyuck,” he says, voice suddenly hoarse. He’s not even sure he’s saying the right name with how weird it feels slipping past his lips.

“Don’t give up,” The man next to him says. Mark doesn’t recognize him anymore, at all, but he’s sure what he’s saying is significant, so he offers a polite nod before they fall into a strangled silence.

The road turns rougher, jagged with rocks and dirt before Mark is pressing the brakes at a fork in the road. Both paths are nearly identical, both spanning a long arbor of trees to a point over the horizon that can’t be seen by the naked eye. Mark’s mind scrambles for a hidden memory of directions as to where he’s supposed to go but it’s hard considering he doesn’t know the destination in the first place. He cranes his neck to ask the stranger hitchhiking a ride with him, but the man is already out of the car, the door shutting behind him and trekking along the path to the left.

Mark sits glued to the driver’s seat long after the man has disappeared into oblivion. Should he follow? Should he stay where he is? Should he venture down the path less traveled? The stranger walked with purpose as if he was aware of what was waiting beyond the path’s perspective but the idea of blindly following someone he barely knew seemed...senseless. But it’s not like he knows what’s waiting for him down the other path either.

His hands drop down from the steering wheel, taking solace in his lap and brushing against something filmy and laminated. His eyes cast down to a polaroid, it’s faint and fading but he can still make out the outlines of two people, sitting together at a cafe, engaged in conversation.

It’s only when he’s able to make out the flecks of rich bronze in a pair of eyes, that he speaks his name.

“Donghyuck.”

And he wakes up.

* * *

  
  


“You’re insane,”

Johnny’s voice interrupts the constant strumming of Mark’s fingers against the guitar strings. His fingers travel from fret to fret and he ignores the pain that is sure to make way for new callouses. He can’t get the chord right and there aren’t enough videos on YouTube or books on Amazon to help him. Contrary to his own skewed opinions, Johnny doesn’t prove helpful either.

“I heard you the first time,” Mark says without looking up, feet crossed under him on Johnny and Jaehyun’s sofa. “You don’t have to keep repeating yourself.”

“I have to because I’m not sure you know how ridiculous this all is,” Johnny says, clicking on his computer before spinning around in the swivel chair to stare at Mark. “You’re learning how to play the guitar to impress someone that barely knows you exist all on the whim of some dream?”

Mark winces. It does sound insane and demented. Any normal person would’ve given up when Donghyuck stormed away from the table without looking back at him once-- maybe even after setting eyes on Donghyuck beneath dim lighting, when he looked too divine to touch. Dreams are, however, prophetic to Mark and the one he has ruminated over for days is unable to escape his mind.

“He told me not to give up,” Mark says with a light strum, frowning when the sound comes out in a less than pleasing intonation. He adjusts the tuning pegs.

“It was a dream Mark,” Johnny comments, his own tone adjusted to exasperation. “He could’ve told you you’re destined to sell tacos for the rest of your life. That doesn’t mean you start breaking out your English to Spanish dictionary.”

Jaehyun’s euphonious laugh trills from the kitchen, blending with the now mellow sound reverberating from the guitar. It’s inspiring. Mark writes down a string of lyrics.

“As much as I hate to admit this,” Jaehyun says coming into the apartment’s living room, brandishing a bowl of potato chips. “Johnny is right. This is a bit out of character, even for you.”

The words are meaningless and trite in Mark’s ears when he’s too focused on the perfect note. He sees the conversation moving forward without him. Johnny’s lips move and then so does Jaehyun’s. Johnny narrows his eyes, his brows knit together, and Jaehyun sighs, plopping down next to Mark on the couch. There’s a wave of fingers and a movement of limbs but Mark doesn't pay too much attention to any of it. He’s strumming a melody, fingers knocking against each other, and crossing to other strings and frets. It’s unorganized and shaky but it’s also repetitive and sticks in his mind when his friends’ words don’t. It clings like the memory of Donghyuck’s voice after one night and like Donghyuck’s voice, he’s unsure why, but he knows that it’s meant to be there and that he’s supposed to do something with it. Cherish it.

“Mark.”

Mark’s fingers fall from the neck of the guitar to meet Johnny’s worried expression. “Yeah, I heard you,” he lies, standing up to put his guitar away. “I need to get home and work on this assignment.”

Johnny grabs his wrist before he gets too far. “I think you should come down to the coffee shop on Saturday,” he says outright, and Mark thinks it's more of a strong suggestion than an invitation.

“Why?”

“We’re doing speed dating,” Johnny says after a moment’s hesitation. “Maybe you won’t be so invested in this fantasy you’ve created if you actually take the time to get to know people that are actually interested in you.”

Donghyuck _is_ interested in him if his dreams are any indication.

Mark groans, head falling backward. “Don’t make me go to that. Speed dating is so forced,”

“Oh, and your pretend relationship with Donghyuck isn’t?” Johnny says.

“I’m not forcing it.”

“Jaehyun said you practically ran the guy off last week.”

Mark shoots Jaehyun an icy glare to which the older man ignores, shoveling a handful of chips in his mouth as he watches the interaction with impassiveness. Mark turns back to look at Johnny, lips pursed.

“You guys wouldn’t understand,” he says after a moment, grip tightening on the case of his guitar. “There’s….there’s something that I can’t exactly describe pulling me towards him. And whether it sounds crazy or not I know he feels it, even if he tries to fight it. It’s like there’s this invisible string connecting us.”

Both Johnny and Jaehyun are silent now, watching Mark with unreadable expressions and it’s the most uncomfortable he’s been around the two people he’s known for years. The apartment groans, pipes creaking from the brisk winter air outside, and floorboards moaning for relief of the awkward silence.

Johnny finally leans back into his chair and tilts his head. “Yeah,” he says, carding his fingers through his dark strands. “And there’ll be an invisible force separating you two. It’s called a restraining order.”

Mark grimaces.

“What Johnny’s trying to say is,” Jaehyun interjects, snack bowl aside. “At least consider the speed dating thing. Don’t put all your eggs into a basket with holes.”

Mark promises to consider it, even if it feels like a betrayal to Donghyuck.

_Do you really plan on giving up that easily?_

_Don’t give up._

* * *

  
  
  


_Considering_ turns into actually showing up at _The Bean Box_ despite the heavy downpour that’s uncanny this close to winter. Johnny shows up in his car fifteen minutes between his and Jaehyun’s shift switch and Mark knows from experience that he doesn’t intend on leaving until Mark’s strapped into the passenger seat. It doesn’t give him a leg to stand on when it comes to refusing so he acquiesces. After all, he doesn’t need to participate in what is sure to be a circus in order to observe all of the clowns. He tells himself throughout the short ride and even as they exit Johnny’s car that his presence is only on the basis of free food and entertainment. He doesn’t have to talk to anyone or look at anyone and no amount of guilt from his friends can make him do otherwise.

Jaehyun meets them at the door, fresh from hanging his apron on the hook behind the counter and wiping his hands on his pants. His eyes gloss over towards Mark, then to Johnny with a follow-up expression that Mark can’t decipher and then he’s shrugging on his coat.

“I set up the decorations and tables,” Jaehyun says to Johnny, fluffing out his coat collar. “Some people have already sat down and placed their orders. I left them on the counter.”

Mark tunes the conversation out after that. It’s all talk of orders and filters and things that Mark doesn’t really care about. Instead, he’s taking in the forced ambiance of the room, adorned with battery-operated tea lights at each table and a large chalkboard folded display of “rules” for the daters. It’s hardly the Hallmark brand of romance that most would expect and he argues--albeit to himself-- that the very concept of speed dating cheapens the idea of true romance. But in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter, because Mark’s not the one willing to sacrifice his love life for a flock of potential low-lives, burnouts, and serial killers.

Jaehyun disappears into the night rain and Johnny’s behind the counter making orders while setting up the microphone system so Mark takes refuge at his favorite spot, shrugging off his wet coat and hanging it on the hook. He doesn’t wait for Johnny’s usual request of his complementary order and helps himself to a pressed sandwich out of the glass display before sitting onto the stool.

Johnny taps at the microphone and the customers recoil beneath the cheap speaker’s wiry feedback. He shoots a charming though apologetic smile and leans closer to the microphone. “Welcome daters,” he says in a voice that Mark recognizes as his “public-speaking” voice. Mark snorts. “Thank you all for braving the elements in the name of love and joining us here at _The Bean Box_ for our Speed Dating Saturday. The time is now 6:57 PM and we’ll be starting promptly at 7 o’clock. Please bear with me and I’ll have your orders out and ready to go.”

Mark unwraps the sandwich and takes a bite while his eyes ghost over the patrons. _Buff. Freckles. Light hair. No hair. Young. Old. Rosy-cheeked. Fair._ It’s more of a pageant really. Sixty seconds to make a decision as to whether or not someone is worth dating isn’t nearly enough time and leaves people to make rulings off the one thing they can objectively judge: appearance. It’s vapid enough to make Mark scrunch his nose and yet he’s a sucker for people watching, especially if it involves an idea as bad as this one. The elephant in the room seems obvious to Mark at the very least, but it doesn’t deter the nervous smiles on the faces of the customers occupying the tables inches away from each. They’re picking at their clothes, fixing their hair incessantly and Mark can relate to the feeling of self-consciousness. He just can’t figure out in what way this is a _good_ idea.

Some of the participants look familiar--he’s sure he’s had a class with a couple of girls checking their makeup in compact mirrors and he’s maybe stumbled across a couple of regulars at the coffee shop a couple of times. His eyes halt at the last table, closest to the makeshift stage and a piece of bread lodges itself in his throat after the sharp inhale.

Hair in dark waves. Skin sun-roasted. Eyes light and warm.

“Where are you going?” Johnny asks, lifting his brow at the sound of the stool rocking against the tile floor and Mark rising to his feet.

“You’re right,” Mark says as he folds the wrapper paper around his sandwich and leaves it on the stool top. “I should put myself out there more.”

Johnny narrows his eyes but shrugs ultimately and Mark is glad for once that he doesn’t read any further into his ruse. There’s a chance Johnny hasn’t noticed Donghyuck in the darkest corner of the room which means Mark has a chance of reaching him without the coinciding looks of disappointment.

The seat directly in front of Donghyuck is taken by a guy, donned in a crisp button-down and slacks, hair slicked back with pomade, and Mark can’t look away as he takes his own seat a couple of slots down. The guy is staring at his own reflection in his cell phone camera, barely acknowledging Donghyuck’s presence. It’s infuriating but also a relief. He doesn’t want _anyone_ to show an interest in Donghyuck, but he knows he could never ask the universe for that. Donghyuck was born to be admired and fawned over. It’s his own selfish yearning that wants to bogart Donghyuck for himself and the guilt sends pangs to his heart. Luckily, Donghyuck appears equally disenchanted and disinterested in the self-absorbed frat boy, too busy stirring the dissolving froth atop his drink.

“Alright,” Johnny’s voice rings out. “You each have sixty seconds to get to know your partners in front of you and when the timer rings, the left side will shift down a seat. Will continue like that until everyone has met.”

Once Johnny starts the timer, Mark’s mind shifts into overdrive, sights set on one thing and one thing only.

He barely listens to the girl in front of him. She’s droning on about her name and the meaning behind it. He catches a couple of her likes and pet peeves, making sure to nod in what seems like perfectly timed pauses, but his eyes are always darting towards the end of the line at Donghyuck, taking in his features and reading every twist of his mouth and scrunch of his nose. Donghyuck’s eyes narrow when he’s unamused and his forehead wrinkles when he’s annoyed. He has a way about him, where he cards his fingers through his hair, exhaling a deep breath that is a mixture of ire and exhaustion and rolling his eyes until the bell sounds and the guy in front of him is shuffling along to the next table.

Mark follows suit. He doesn’t even know the girl’s name by the time he sits down again. Nor does he really acknowledge the guy that seems nice but a little too bent on snagging his attention.

The rounds go on much like a conditioned dance. The bell rings and in assembly-line fashion, his row stands and sidles to the left, sitting in the previously occupied chair. He feels the exasperation of those in front of him at his unwillingness but he doesn't care. Each time he’s closer and closer to his target, so close that he can hear Donghyuck’s voice responding to the older gentleman in front of him.

“The post office!” the old man exclaims, pointing a finger towards Donghyuck who’s clearly amused for the first time that evening. “I’ve seen you at the post office!”

Donghyuck shakes his head, fringe falling into his eyes. “No, I don’t think so.”

“The subway then,” the old man continues, adjusting his glasses, hanging low on the bridge of his nose. “Maybe it was there?”

“Afraid not.”

“Well, I know I’ve never seen you around the nursing home.”

Donghyuck smiles and Mark’s heart aches to receive that sort of attention. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember meeting you,” Donghyuck says with a lilt before slurping down the rest of his drink.

The man scratches his balding head in confusion, eyes squinting and intent on placing Donghyuck’s face but the timer rings again and Mark’s chair nearly topples over as he shoots to his feet moving to Donghyuck’s table.

The elder doesn’t move right away, still hellbent on identifying Donghyuck’s face and Mark grows antsy. He bounces on his heels behind the back of the man’s chair, hands fidgeting before falling to pluck and tug at the frayed belt loops of his jeans. The other daters around him have already found purchase in their seats, waiting for the signal from Johnny to begin conversing and after the senior citizen leans back in his own chair, tugging at his beard, mouth dropping open, Mark clears his throat.

The man looks up at him slightly startled and taken aback, but so does Donghyuck, his eyes widening before flashing to something akin to realization. His eyes narrow to something similar to accusation briefly. And then his shoulders slump, mouth twists and he relaxes. Acceptance.

“I hate to cut in,” Mark hears himself say, mustering up as much politeness as he can manage. Somewhere in the distance, he hears his mother’s voice. _Smile. Respect your elders. Please and thank you. Don’t use forceful words, for words cannot be retracted._ He gets it, he nods as if his mother is there hovering over his shoulder watching his every move. But he can’t help the antsiness that won’t easily dissolve away. He only has sixty seconds to plead his case--to talk to Donghyuck and he doesn’t want to waste it because of formalities and proper decorum. He doesn’t finish his sentence, hoping that the trail of his words leads the elder to the right path: Get the fuck up.

The old man grows flustered or perhaps upset, Mark doesn’t spend another second analyzing it when he’s up out of his seat and shuffling over to the next station with a muddled gait.

Mark settles in his seat and carefully avoids Donghyuck’s eyes, even seconds after Johnny has given the signal for the interactions to start. When he finally dares to look up from the chipped wood of the table, Donghyuck is staring at him intensely, fingers pressed against his now empty drink cup. Mark tries to distract himself from the penetrative gaze by outlining the curve of Donghyuck’s lips, pulled into a straight line--neither impressed nor distressed. He takes in his frame, small beneath the oversized black hooded bomber jacket, the neatly etched slit in his eyebrows, and the pearl necklace clinging to the skin of his neck.

Mark’s mind runs through a lot of thoughts at once. Some of them he represses immediately like the anxiety of how forward he’s being, approaching someone that stormed off on him a week and almost two weeks ago. Others, he’s happy to embrace, like the idea that Donghyuck is at a speed dating event meaning that the off chance that the baggy and oversized clothes that he owns are more likely staples in his wardrobe than the current possession of a current boyfriend. Mark can’t stop his heart from murmuring at that. The thoughts continue to run rampant until Mark realizes that his time is limited and Donghyuck is staring at him like he’s turned defective.

“I-” he manages, but stops short, unsure what to say.

Donghyuck reclines back and brings his arms to cross his chest. “It’s you.” The words don’t feel accusatory or laced with any animosity. It’s more of a stated fact. Like stating that it’s raining or cold outside.

Mark swallows and nods, locking his fingers together tightly. “Yeah,” he answers and laughs out of habit. The tension has him in a chokehold.

“You really don’t let up do you?” Donghyuck asks, raising a brow, the slitted one.

“You don’t want me to.”

Mark’s eyes expand twice their size as the words slip past his lips. He means to think it to himself, alluding to the dream that hasn’t left his mind since he’s had it, but something in Donghyuck’s posture shifts, and his hands drop down to his lap instead.

“Oh?” he asks matter-of-factly.

Mark exhales and offers a small smile to conceal the fact that his fingers are trembling. “I mean,” he gestures to their surroundings with a hand. “You’re at a speed dating event. That kind of opens you up to it. The conversation, I mean.” Donghyuck seems to accept the justification and Mark is glad. The last thing he wants is to send him off again because of his own ineptitude.

Donghyuck nods and his mouth twists, trying desperately to conceal what Mark hopes is the start of a smile. “Nice try,” he says. “But I’m only here for moral support.” He gestures his head down the row of tables, and Mark hones in on a guy, probably around their age give or take a year or two. His eyes crescent when he smiles at something the person in front of him says and he whips the raven strands of stringy hair out of his face every couple of seconds. The guy is attractive and Mark recalls seeing him the night he first laid eyes on Donghyuck, amongst the gaggle of his friends cheering him on.

Donghyuck watches the boy too, snorting as his friend lets out a penetrating guffaw that triggers the attention of everyone around him. “This was my stupid friend’s idea,” Donghyuck continues, drawing his eyes back towards Mark. “I don’t do these kinds of things. But I refuse to let him go off with some weirdo.”

Mark understands the sentiment. Hell, he’s happy Donghyuck is even offering him more than a couple of sentences if he’s being honest with himself. He meets Donghyuck’s eyes again. “I know the feeling.”

Donghyuck's pupils circle around before landing back on Mark. “You do realize that you’re at a speed dating event too, right? That’s a bit incriminating,”

Mark’s lips curl back revealing a wide grin. He leans in towards his interlocked hands, close enough for the fake tea light to illuminate his face. “I guess you’re right,” he says with a tilt of his head. “I guess I am here for a reason.”

Donghyuck looks invested. “And that reason being?”

“You.”

Maybe Mark is crazy. His freshman roommate certainly thought so when he first started going to the doctor for anxiety and came back to their dorm with paper prescription bags of different medications that he could hardly pronounce. Jaehyun and Johnny think he’s crazy for living in a fantasy world embedded in his brain. Mark could even argue that the occasional times that he talks to himself, and actually _responds_ back is the first sign of a schizoid type personality. But his eyes never deceive him. Even with a set of prescription glasses that he only wears for reading, Mark’s vision is near 20/20 so there’s no mistaking the slow creep of redness that starts to build across Donghyuck’s nose. It’s barely noticeable with all of the low lights, but the faux candle shines against Donghyuck’s skin just right and Mark thinks the thin strip of rosiness ombreing away from his tan skin makes him look like a ripe peach--sweet flesh, delicate skin and all.

Donghyuck doesn’t say anything nor does he tear his eyes away from Mark’s deciduous gaze. They’re both pulled out by the timer and feet shuffling but neither one of them moves.

Mark sees the next guy, a student he’s seen around the dining hall once or twice on campus, approach his left, and the glare he shoots the guy is unintentional but purposeful, stopping him in his steps.

“Keep it moving,” Mark growls without hesitation and for a moment he thinks Donghyuck will be put off by the sudden show of aggression and overprotectiveness. However, when the guy directs his helpless gaze towards Donghyuck--maybe for input or support-- Donghyuck simply turns his heated face away, shrugging off the guy’s complete existence. It makes Mark’s pride swell even after the guy falters out of the coffee shop entirely and even still after Johnny flags the next increment of sixty seconds to start.

Mark looks back to Donghyuck and to his disappointment, most of the flush has ebbed.

“You couldn’t possibly-” Donghyuck starts with a voice that’s sotto voce, but Mark still catches it. “You couldn’t be here for me.”

“Why not?” Mark asks.

“Because, how could you even know that I’d be here.”

Mark juts his lips out as he nods, contemplating to himself. “That’s true,” he admits, drumming the pads of his fingers against the table, watching the imprint of fingerprints appear and disappear. “I didn’t really come here because of you. But I hoped to see you again.”

He isn’t sure if Donghyuck believes him or maybe he’s suspicious, but Mark knows he’s slipping away when Donghyuck’s mouth twists into something unsavory and his shoulders fall forward, figure shrinking beneath the jacket. He’s slowly closing off again and that makes Mark panic. That makes him lose all of the bold, self-assured confidence he mustered up to even get through the first half of their conversation and sends him into a fit of sweaty palms and brows. The bundle of nerves inside of him wants him to reach out for Donghyuck, and take hold of his hands before he can scramble up again, because who knows if Mark will get this chance again. Donghyuck could storm off as he had before and decide never to return. The city is full of many different coffee shops that he could frequent and _The Bean Box_ wasn’t anything special. Donghyuck could be out of his seat and out of Mark's life in less time than it takes the timer to ring again and Mark wasn’t sure if he could handle that. His palms itch beyond the sweat coating it and he dwells on the idea of acting out his impulses when Donghyuck speaks up.

“Why?”

“Why what?” Mark all but chokes out milliseconds after Donghyuck speaks.

“Why...were you hoping to see me again?” he asks in a way that suggests genuine confusion over suspicion. “You don’t know me and the last time we obviously didn’t get off on the right foot.”

Mark is careful this time, eyes trailing off as he formulates his words strategically. “It’s not the sex thing if that’s what you’re thinking,” he settles on. “I don’t want-” _Don’t lie._ He purses his lips. “I wouldn’t proposition you like that.”

When Donghyuck is still there, seated and watching him, he continues. “Aside from an apology for even giving you that impression, I really was interested in you, musically.”

The quiet hum Donghyuck gives calms Mark’s nerves slightly and he watches as Donghyuck brings his own fingertips to graze the tabletop, whether accidentally or with intent, centimeters away from Mark’s own. The action feels intimate, almost like his dreams.

“You said you weren’t a student but you work with music for your job,” Mark continues when Donghyuck doesn’t resist. “Where do you work?”

In the back of his mind, he hears the timer again. No one bothers to disturb them this time.

Donghyuck inhales a sharp breath and cranes his eyes skyward, pupils dilated with nostalgia. “I’m not very traditional,” he offers. “It’s not an acknowledged job.”

“Is it illegal?”

“Depends on who you ask?”

Mark’s mind can’t picture Donghyuck doing anything to get his hands dirty. He doesn’t look like the criminal type, but then again what did the criminal type look like. Even serial killers have charm. But his heart is sure it’s not the case for Donghyuck. Donghyuck isn’t that type. Not with eyes like his. Not with a soul that Mark could read and feel so wholeheartedly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Donghyuck says with a small pout despite rolling his eyes. “I’m a street performer or a panhandler according to the law.”

“You sing for money?”

Donghyuck nods. It isn’t that far fetched of an idea with a golden throat like his. But it makes Mark want to dive further into the mysticism that is Donghyuck. Where has he been all of this time that Mark’s never run into him on street corners and boulevards? How has he inadvertently deprived himself of Donghyuck’s gift? Maybe if he’d accepted those invitations out he would’ve run across Donghyuck earlier and under different circumstances. These are things Mark thinks, wants to verbalize, but in Mark Lee fashion, he sticks his own foot in his mouth and wedges it down his throat.

“Isn’t that a bit...inconsistent?”

He waits for wrath, or maybe silent indignation.

But it doesn’t come.

“I’m inconsistent,” Donghyuck responds instead.

Mark’s fingers inch closer. “How?”

The corner of Donghyuck’s lips pulls up, light at his teeth. “I don’t like structure,” he eventually says. “School has never been for me and why get an apartment or house when I’m not sure if I’m settled. I think I’m too free for that.” He’s drawing patterns on the tabletop, little suns, and his index finger is careful when it grazes Mark’s skin. “So I stay with my friends until it’s time for me to move on.”

Mark _wants_. Mark wants Donghyuck badly. Donghyuck settles in front of him like lightning bugs on summer nights but he’s skittish, flitting away before Mark has the chance to grasp him tenderly in the palm of his hands. It’s insensitive to want to dictate Donghyuck’s life. It’s selfish for him to feel entitled and upset at the prospect of Donghyuck moving further away from him. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting Donghyuck to spare a piece of himself for Mark to hold, a piece that he can call his own. Donghyuck’s body is divided-- his voice belongs to the public, his smile given to his friends. Mark just wants the one piece that matters. He wants the piece that keeps Donghyuck alive, the piece that keeps him going, the piece that pushes blood and adrenaline throughout his being that drives him. Mark is selfish for wanting it but if a free-spirit is truly free, isn’t he entitled to indulge? Shouldn’t he be allowed a chance to bask in whatever Donghyuck is willing to offer: mentally, physically, emotionally, sexually? Wholeheartedly?

He knows no one is ever born this way. At least, he’s never met anyone who longs for independence since birth. Has Donghyuck always been this way? No. It’s not possible. This is a mechanism, a defense. The Donghyuck in his dreams begged for him not to give up. The Donghyuck that basked underneath the morning sun, wind in his hair, rays kissing his skin wanted Mark just as much as Mark wanted him. He didn’t know how to go about it, how to ask for it. It’s a ruse. A facade. Maybe no one’s ever been willing to fight for Donghyuck. Donghyuck wanted a life without inhibitions, free of boundaries from others or society. But the only thing in Donghyuck’s way was Donghyuck.

“I’m not a fan of commitment,” Donghyuck admits.

“Is that why you’re so suspicious of everyone?” Mark asks.

Donghyuck’s head flinches back, eyes blinking rapidly. “What are you talking about?”

Mark snorts but manages to maintain a light tone. “Remember, the whole accusing me of wanting to have sex with you?”

Donghyuck’s expression softens in realization and he tugs at a strand of his hair, a ghost of a smile present. “You’ve seen the people around here,” he comments, nodding at some of the patrons as an example. “It’s not too unrealistic to assume that’s what’s on a lot of people’s minds. Especially when they approach you so randomly.”

“It’s not just that,” Mark bites down on his tongue. “Your song lyrics-”

“What about them.” Donghyuck narrows. He’s pulling back again, Mark can feel it. But he also feels the string connecting them pulling Mark forward.

“You’re jaded by something,” he says, refusing to back down this time despite the adrenaline surging and the wetness forming beneath his armpits. “Or someone. So much that you don’t want to commit to anything--people, places, or things. If someone was really interested in you, would you give them a chance?”

The answer has no hesitation.

“No.”

But Mark knows it’s a lie.

“Why,” he presses, leaning forward. Neither of them notices how close they are in each other’s space, faces hovering over the table, Mark’s hand atop Donghyuck’s smaller one. They’re breathing the same air, eyes locked in with heat and intensity and this time, neither of them is willing to back down. “Why are you against love?”

Donghyuck laughs. It isn’t as raucous as his friends. It’s soft but bitter and barbed with something hidden that makes Mark’s heartache in sympathy.

“Because love isn’t something you commit to,” Donghyuck answers truthfully, eyes wavering. His bottom lip is tucked beneath his teeth and his eyebrows worry his face with frown lines. “You can’t just-” he swallows. “You can’t just decide that you’re going to love somebody forever. Because one day, you can wake up and feel nothing. And it’s not anyone’s fault if you fall out of love or if they fall out of love but you can’t just _decide_ to feel the same way about someone forever. It’s impossible.”

Mark hurts. Donghyuck hurts Mark so fucking badly.

A shadow hovers over them and they both look upward towards the jet black hair and an athletic build beneath a leather coat and wrinkled t-shirt. Donghyuck’s friend stares pointedly at their hands, still connected, and now interlocked. _When did that happen?_ But it doesn’t matter because upon realization, Donghyuck is retreating like he’s been touching hot coal.

“Jeno,” he clears his throat and turns his body towards his friend completely, ignoring Jeno’s lingering gaze on Mark. “Are we done here yet?”

“Yeah,” Jeno says hesitantly before transitioning into a bright infectious smile. “I got that cute pink-haired guys number.”

Donghyuck seems less interested in his friend's conquest, standing up and brushing off imaginary dust from his black jeans and grabbing his empty plastic cup. “Good, let’s go.”

“But who’s this-”

“Let’s go,” Donghyuck tugs at Jeno’s hand, pulling him through the winding maze of tables and chairs.

Mark watches them go but he doesn’t feel guilt this time watching Donghyuck exit and round the corner out of his sights. He knows he hasn’t offended Donghyuck. It’s behavior that he expects, behavior that he knows himself: fight or flight. His therapist explained it to him as instinct, a mechanism derived from the desire to survive and be the fittest. One decides at any perceived threat to survival to either face the fire or run. Mark always ran. He didn’t like confrontation, usually staying to himself, so he understands Donghyuck’s actions. Mark’s questions posed a threat to Donghyuck’s way of life. It made Donghyuck question things that he never wanted to face. And so Donghyuck does, what Mark knows is plausible for a person that hates being caged in. He runs. Without another word. Without looking back. Without the pleasure of knowing Mark’s name.

Mark leans back until the chair is against his spine and lolls his head back. He just wants to know if he’d pass the same test of approval that Donghyuck subjects everyone else to.

* * *

  
  


Mark doesn’t see Donghyuck for another two weeks. Things go by so uneventfully that Mark worries that maybe Donghyuck made good on his word and moved on to the next place. He asks Johnny (somewhat casually) if he’s seen Donghyuck at the cafe and both he and Jaehyun attest that they can’t remember the last time they’ve seen him.

Mark continues classes, continues composing his Music Composition project, and continues learning the guitar, even if there isn’t a reason to anymore.

* * *

The next time he sees Donghyuck is in his vivid dreams, driven by exhaustion and stress.

The dream is an attempt for him to decompress from all the pressure life throws at him the closer the end of the semester approaches, but part of him knows--hopes-- it’s Donghyuck manifesting his own wants and needs.

Donghyuck is in his bed, beneath Mark’s weight, pliant and begging. His lips are swollen, throat exposed, and lined with purplish bruises blending and fading into the flush of his delicate skin. Mark notes as he lifts Donghyuck’s leg, placing kisses by his ankle and down to his inner thighs, that his whines are as honeyed as his singing voice. Together, they create a symphony.

Their kisses are an adagio, dragging on at an unbearable slow tempo, too gradual for Donghyuck to take, prompting a series of atonal whines. He wraps his arms around Mark’s neck and begs for more and Mark chants his name as if he’s inclined to forget it.

_Donghyuck._

_Donghyuck._

_Donghyuck._

His hard thrusts are accented, setting the pace of the entire musical movement between their sticky and damp bodies and Donghyuck drags his legs up, bent into his chest, loosely hanging around Mark’s waist. Each drive of his hips is in sync with a beat but Mark’s mind is too clouded to alike it to anything. Maybe it’s the constant knocking of the headboard into the walls of the creaking of the springs in his mattress. It could be his own shaky breath that is jagged and unrestrained. Mark buries his head in the crook of Donghyuck’s neck, licking a stripe across the column before resting his ear against the skin. No. It’s the pulse of Donghyuck’s heart. It’s the only beat that matters. The only measure his mind will acknowledge. 

And when his hips slow to a painstakingly slow pace, their tortured moans are chords, mingling together like the strum of Mark’s guitar. Donghyuck’s body writhes before he does, arching into a crescendo until he’s singing Mark’s praises, white notes spilling onto Mark’s stomach and dying at the junction of Donghyuck’s thighs. Mark doesn’t waste any time reaching his own resolutions, and when he fills Donghyuck, deep and overflowing, he decides that Donghyuck is the best body of work he’s ever played.

He buries his face in Donghyuck’s neck again for his last bow.

  
  
  
  


Donghyuck rolls over at the sound of rain, presses his back into Mark’s bare chest and Mark groans as their skin sticks together instantly. He knows Donghyuck is awake now because his pulse is no longer, slow and steady like his breaths when he sleeps. Mark leans forward and cranes his head down to look at the Donghyuck’s face. His eyes are open, glazed, staring at the rain hitting the window.

“I didn’t know I had the type of power to stun you into silence,” Mark jokes, kissing Donghyuck’s neck, and he full-blown laughs when Donghyuck groans his distaste at the comment.

“I’m not strung out,” Donghyuck replies hoarsely, voice still recovering from a chorus of screams and whines. “I just like the rain.”

Mark hums and wraps his arms around Donghyuck’s waist. He doesn’t want to let go.

“Don’t,” Donghyuck replies, reading Mark’s mind. “Stay here.”

“It’s Monday. I have classes. Come rain, snow, sleet, or hail,” Mark kisses Donghyuck’s ears, lips grazing the skin.

“Skip today.”

Neither one of them says anything after that, mostly because Donghyuck knows Mark is putty in his hand and Mark knows there’s very little that he can do when Donghyuck puts his mind up to something. So settle further beneath the comforter, both staring at the rain hitting the window in fat droplets. The ceiling fan above them rotates slowly, blowing Donghyuck’s damp fringe back and forth. Mark counts the moles trailing down his neck.

“You passed.”

“What?” Mark asks, leaning up on his elbow to stare down at Donghyuck.

“That night, you wanted to know if you’d pass my test. You passed,” Donghyuck says without shifting to meet Mark’s interested glance. “I was so freaked out by it that I rushed off. But you passed, I felt it.”

Mark stares at this version of Donghyuck--open, sentimental, and vulnerable. “Will you run every time it scares you?”

The mattress dips as Donghyuck shifts onto his back and stares up at Mark partially caging him in with one elbow. “Will you give up if I do?”

“Never.”

Even after Donghyuck chooses not to respond, opting to close his eyes with a hum, feigning sleep due to the discomfort of the conversation, Mark continues to stare down at him. He’s pretty like this-- lips swollen, skin glowy and damp beneath their body heat and each other’s fluids. Donghyuck is his, he’s given himself to him mentally and now physically, but there’s a barrier to the emotional aspect that still bothers Mark. He squints his eyes, hopes he sees through Donghyuck’s skin, and into his soul but sighs when he comes up short.

“It’s not your fault,” Donghyuck whispers. “I shouldn’t punish you for someone else’s mistake.”

Donghyuck’s eyes are still closed but tightened and even when Mark taps his shoulder to arouse him, he refuses to open them. Mark redistributes his body to hover over him, forearms resting on either side of Donghyuck’s head, blankets pools down to his waist.

“Donghyuck, look at me.”

Donghyuck frowns, eyes tighten, hesitates.

“Donghyuck.”

Donghyuck exhales slowly.

“Please, look at me.”

When Donghyuck opens his eyes again, Mark can’t breathe. The glassiness is unexpected and he brings his finger up to catch the tears before they pool over the rim and dampen his cheeks. Donghyuck isn’t sobbing or hyperventilating. He’s silent and stagnant, but the tears spill over like waterfalls and Mark’s heart is erratic.

“I’ve been in love before,” Donghyuck admits. Mark’s unprepared to hear that but encourages Donghyuck to continue at his own pace. “It was good until it wasn’t. One day he just decided he didn’t feel it anymore and that was my burden to bear.” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth and gasps into a sob that he’s tried so hard to suppress. “I spent so long trying to figure out what I did wrong,” he hiccups. “And when I couldn’t figure it out, I figured, things would be better this way. The easy way.”

Mark’s body wants to shut down from the flurry of emotions overriding his system. Hurt. Anger. Empathy. Fury. His mind couldn’t slow down or keep up with the new onslaught of information and it took himself minutes to regain his composure.

“Hyuck,” he says finally, bringing the pads of his thumbs to wipe away the salty drops rolling down in rivulets down his face. “That wasn’t love.”

Donghyuck blinks back more tears, staring at Mark with something akin to disbelief. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because,” Mark says, voice steady and firm. “If the saying is true, that you only get one soulmate in a lifetime, how could it have been love?” His thumb slides down to rest on Donghyuck’s bottom lip, rosy and plump. “I’m your soulmate.”

The words leave his mouth more confident than anything Mark’s ever said or done. He’s sure, and there isn’t any amount of anxiety or doubt that can convince him otherwise. He feels it in his soul, knows that Donghyuck feels it, and that’s what matters the most. Donghyuck was his muse, his love, his light, his laughter, his life. He was a collection of Mark’s best works and an album of his best memories and those yet to come.

“You just have to trust me enough to give love-- _real_ love-- a try. Especially for the person that’s fully equipped to handle it,” Mark says, littering Donghyuck’s forehead with kisses.

  
  


Mark isn’t sure when Donghyuck fades away and when he wakes up this time. It’s less obvious than the last, but he sits in his bed, shrouded in darkness and staring at the red blinking digits of his alarm clock as he replays the last words he remembers hearing.

_I’m ready._

* * *

  
  


It’s the last Friday of the month when _The Bean Box_ has its next open mic night. Exactly four weeks since Mark first laid eyes on Donghyuck, two weeks and four days since he’s physically seen Donghyuck in the flesh and four days since his prophetic dream.

Halloween is still a couple of days out but Johnny and Jaehyun had their share of fun decorating the dark cafe with pumpkins and faux fall foliage despite the weather feeling more wintry than anything. Mark can’t escape shades of oranges and browns no matter where he looks when he enters late that evening and Johnny throws him a smile as he makes what Mark can only assume is his thousandth pumpkin-based beverage of the day.

The crowd is already big and lively but Mark doesn’t expect anything less for what has grown to be a cult classic event amongst college students. He sees classmates he can’t place a name to, lapped up with friends and partners at tables crowding the stage and suddenly the neck of his guitar feels heavy in his hands, like dead weight. It anchors him to his position smack dabbed in the middle of the entrance’s walking space and he only snaps out of his demeanor when a couple of incomers nudge him out of the way with annoyed expressions.

“Mark you can’t stand there,” Johnny teases, handing a familiar guy his drink with a charming wink. “Move it or lose it.”

Mark considers the words to a literal sense as bile threatens to surge up his esophagus and hit the floor beneath his feet. Somehow he doubts the smell of fresh vomit and pumpkin spice would compliment each other, so he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a stick of mint gum to settle his stomach.

He drags his feet towards the counter and unlike every other time, stands in line to order like normal customers without the benefits of nepotism. His fingers pluck at the strings of his guitar, indifferent to the fact that he’s probably loosening the tuning pegs and throwing the whole instrument out of whack. He doesn’t care. He has to keep his hands busy or else he’ll notice them trembling. And if he notices his hands trembling he’ll realize how anxious and downright uncomfortable he is, making him liable to chicken out of something he knows he wants to do. Something he knows he _has_ to do. The one thing Donghyuck begs him to do.

By the time he reaches Johnny at the front of the counter, Johnny already has a piping hot cup of peppermint tea steaming on the counter. “I can’t believe you’re actually gonna do this,” he says, reluctantly taking the bills that Mark forces across the countertop in crumpled folds. “Scratch that. I can’t believe you actually learned how to play the guitar in 30 days because of a boy Mark Lee. You’re some romantic.”

Mark wants to chug the tea no matter how hot it is but remembers the pain of soothing a burnt tongue for days the last time he did and settles for swallowing back the thick pool of saliva gathering on his tongue. He’s a music student. He’s performed before. There’s nothing new about it. He’s had to perform in front of faculty and classmates and when he becomes a successful lyricist or producer or composer, he’ll have the pleasure of performing in front of artists. But none of those people made him this nervous. None of those situations seemed as dire as this did, wearing his heart on his sleeve--sure of affection but uncertain of rejection.

Johnny must notice his unrest because he leans forward and rests a cautious hand on Mark’s shoulder. “You okay Mark? You look a little sick. You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

Mark nods and grabs the warm cup a tad bit unsteadily. “As Van Gogh once said, I may be suffering in misery but there’s still music inside of me,” he steps aside so as to not block the next customer. “I have to do this.”

Johnny’s grin creeps onto his slowly. “You are _such_ a sap.”

Mark groans beneath his own embarrassment, trying his best to tune out Johnny’s teasing in favor of the current musician playing the saxophone on stage. But Johnny is nothing if not obnoxious, and his voice penetrates Mark’s attention, especially when he says:

“He’s here tonight.”

The bathroom is too far out of reach for Mark to even consider hauling himself inside a stall and pouring his guts out. As anxious and nervous and worried as he is, he remembers the why behind it all. _Donghyuck_. 

Donghyuck, in all his beauty, his fragile heart, his delicate soul. His soulmate.

Mark doesn’t look through the audience for him. He doesn’t even think about what he’s about to do until Johnny is nodding him over towards the stage as a girl descends. He’s pushed forward by adrenaline and Johnny’s cheers, though the guitar feels heavy as he mounts the stage and even as he sits in the stool in front of the microphone.

He feels the eyes watch him, all of them attuned to his every movement, and when he looks up finally, prepared to throw himself to the mercy of the crowd, he feels the penetrative stare of someone not too far off from the stage.

He’s at the closest table, this time alone, unlike all the other times when he’s accompanied by his friends. His hair cascading in waves framed around his face, a slightly lighter tone, more copper than the previous brown. It’s a perfect contrast to bronze skin and honey eyes, perfect pink lips, and a gaze that’s captivated and curious. Mark stares back at Donghyuck and sees his breath hitch slightly as if the secrets Mark knows from the depths of his dreams are on the sleeve of his jean jacket. A faint blush tints Donghyuck’s cheeks and the last time Mark saw it, Donghyuck keened beneath him in the confines of his mind. He remembers it in the lowlights of faux candles during their conversation weeks ago and it's just as attractive and endearing as it was then.

Someone clears their throat and Mark snaps back to reality--the task at hand.

“Um,” he says into the microphone, recoiling at the sound of his own raspy voice in the speakers. “I’ve never played the guitar in public before.” He props the guitar in his arms, caressing the neck, fingers falling over the strings. “I guess I’m a bit nervous.”

A chorus of supportive cheers and applause ring out prompting a bashful laugh from his Mark and then his eyes are locking back on to Donghyuck, who’s leaning forward across his table.

“This song doesn’t really have a title,” he continues. “I sort of just turned it in for my music comp assignment but, it’s written for someone and I hope they like it.”

“Yeah Mark Lee!” he hears Johnny cheer from across the room and he nods nervously, training his eyes on the strings.

  
  


_You, you like driving on a Sunday_

_You, you like taking off on Monday_

_You, you're like a dream, a dream come true_

Mark sings about what he knows. He sings about Donghyuck, living and thriving in the realms of his dreams. In the realm of his heart. He sings about Donghyuck in the sun on that sunny Sunday morning, traveling down the country road, wind in his hair, and warmth on his face. The same Donghyuck that jokes with him in a distant future. The same Donghyuck that likes to memorialize everything in photos. The same Donghyuck that has too much pride to directly ask for what he wants but he’s dead set on making Mark figure it out because he wants Mark to try--wants Mark to fight for him.

It’s the same Donghyuck that likes to laze about on rainy Monday mornings when he wakes up a tad bit too early, right before dawn. He looks softer under the cloudy overcast of clouds pouring in through the window of Mark’s apartment, clinging to Mark for dear life--clinging onto him like Mark’s going to leave. No matter how many times Mark kisses the worries away and promises that he’s not going anywhere, Donghyuck holds on as if his life depends on it. He cries when he needs to and moans for Mark in more ways than one and Mark is always there by his side when he needs him.

_I was just a face you never notice_

_Now I'm just trying to be honest_

_With myself, with you, with the world_

It takes Mark one month exactly, thirty days to do what both Johnny and the internet says he can’t do: learn to play guitar. Despite the strife and torment, he thinks it’s worth it for a pair of warm eyes to notice him. He doesn’t need to stare at Donghyuck to know he’s taken notice. He feels the stare on his skin, in his heart, and in his soul. He has Donghyuck’s undivided attention and Donghyuck is listening to the words he says and reading between the lines of the ones that aren’t there.

_You might think that I'm a fool_

_For falling over you_

_So tell me what can I do to prove to you_

_That it's not so hard to do?_

Donghyuck--the Donghyuck before him, the real Donghyuck-- thinks that love isn’t something to commit to. He believes it’s a myth. He believes it’s fleeting. Maybe he thinks Mark is foolish for thinking otherwise, but Mark _knows_ Donghyuck wants real love just as much as Mark is willing to give it to him. It’s ridiculous to do something as tedious as learning an instrument in one month’s time to prove devotion and dedication, but Mark has always been true to the end with everything he invests in. Donghyuck is no different.

_Give love a try, one more time_

_'Cause you know that I'm on your side_

_Give love a try, one more time_

Mark wants to be there for Donghyuck. He wants to prove that love exists and that it isn’t fleeting. And even if Donghyuck isn’t ready to take the leap, Mark can wait. Mark _will_ wait. He just needs Donghyuck to try. _Please try. Please try._

Applause follows the final strum and a breath releases itself from Mark’s lungs. He chances a look towards Donghyuck’s table, but he isn’t there. Mark’s eyes frantically scan the crowd, inharmonious with claps and chants, but he doesn’t see Donghyuck anywhere. He isn’t by the counter, not by the restrooms--he’s completely out of sight.

Mark’s shoulders sink and he drags himself off the stage, doing his best to force a smile and a few polite ‘thank yous’ to a group of well-wishers meeting him at the end of the stage. He’s not in the mood to watch the next act and even rejects the insistent complimentary drink Johnny has ready for him. All he thinks about is how he’s blown it. Donghyuck is gone.

He pushes the glass door open and steps out into the chilly night air, slinging the strap of his guitar over his shoulder. It’s still warm enough to walk back to his place and Mark is thankful. He needs to clear his head and idle conversation with a cab driver or passengers on the city bus isn’t exactly high on his list right now.

“Hey.”

Mark whips his head at the sound of the familiar voice and freezes as he takes in Donghyuck leaning against the side of the building, hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes trained on Mark.

“Hey,” he responds lamely, breath coming out in a cloud of air.

The silence doesn’t last long as Donghyuck pushes off of the wall, stopping a foot away from Mark and rocking back on his heels. “That song,” he starts, mouth twisting, uncertain of what to say at first but sighs out. “It was really nice.”

Mark’s shoulders fall in relief and he smiles. “Yeah?”

Donghyuck nods. “Do-” he shuffles his weight to his other foot awkwardly. Mark takes notice. “Do you want to go get food or something?”

Mark gestures with hands, allowing Donghyuck to take the lead, careful not to let him catch the wide grin that deepens behind his back.

“By the way,” Donghyuck says, slowing his pace to fall back in step next to Mark. “What did you say your name was?”

Mark drops his hands from the strap of his guitar to his sides. “I didn’t...but it’s Mark.”

“Mark,” Donghyuck says slowly, savoring the taste. His own hands fall out of the pockets of his hoodie and graze against Mark’s. “I’m Donghyuck.”

And Donghyuck doesn’t have to tell him. Because Mark knows. He always speaks it softly in his dreams.

**Author's Note:**

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